


A Cup of Coffee, A Sandwich and You.

by James Brantley (Brantsrants)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 17:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brantsrants/pseuds/James%20Brantley
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship as seen through food.





	A Cup of Coffee, A Sandwich and You.

**Author's Note:**

> Kept rewriting chapter 2 over and over and it not being right, so in the meantime closing this up and might make a standalone smut story later.
> 
> as always come yell at me on tumblr starkspangledobsidian.tumblr.com

Aziraphale starts getting suspicious on a Thursday, a few weeks after the whole anti-Christ business.

He probably would have noticed sooner, but to be entirely fair he had tried his best not to notice. Prior to the nahpocalypse (as Crowley deemed it, to the delight of the Them) Aziraphale had been so scared of what heaven or hell would do to them he did his best not to think of Crowley at all. He didn't think about how kind he was or how pretty his eyes were. He didn’t think about his long dexterous fingers...running over...places.

Now though, with no superiors in the way, the only obstacle between them seemed to be their own blasted stubborn cowardice. Aziraphale may have underestimated how large that obstacle was. He had thought that Crowley would make the first move, he always had before. "Oh, Crowley what will I do I can’t perform too many miracles to get out of this prison" "oh Crowley, my jacket is stained and if I miracle it I'll know it’s there" and so on.

For the first few meetings after everything it seemed likely, and then midway through what Aziraphale hoped was a confession, Crowley would clam up, visibly and forcibly changing the route of the conversation to safer waters. Aziraphale is a bit impatient but he doesn't truly mind, it's just a concern of his that maybe he thought it all up, that Crowley wasn't actually interested, a thrill of the chase or forbidden fruit (not to be too on the nose) that of course was before Thursday.

Aziraphale has been observing Crowley closely now since he has no reason not to, he especially wants to throw Crowley's sunglasses to the ducks in St. James Park and stare into his bright yellow eyes like looking into the sun, and count his eyelashes and other such pathetic nonsense (he is self-aware, thank you very much Anathema). 

It is early, the sun has barely risen, and steam gently wafts against Aziraphale's face as he sips his tea. He curls up in his chair with his blanket and watches fondly as Crowley curses in his kitchen. They're upstairs in Aziraphale’s living quarters, the shop closed, Freddie Mercury croons softly from the radio in the corner.

Crowley is making breakfast because Aziraphale may have implied that the last truly home cooked meal he had was at Oscar Wilde's old haunt. Crowley had that little angry furrow between his brows ever since, bitching that breakfast isn't that difficult and if that's what the angel wanted, he could do it better than any stupid poet or something anyway. He made sure to tell Aziraphale quite plainly that he was not cooking breakfast for the angel but for himself because he was tired of going out all the time and if the angel wanted some of the breakfast he could have some but he'd better not thank him for it. Aziraphale said "oh, whatever you think is best my dear, I may have a bit of a nibble if you don't mind terribly."

Aziraphale sipped his tea and tried to act as uninterested in the proceedings as possible. Crowley nodded, "fine. Fine. But I'm not doing this all the time you know. I'm only cooking a little something." Crowley then cooked the biggest spread Aziraphale had ever seen. Aziraphale had nearly eaten half of the entire thing when he realized the only thing Crowley had consumed was the same cup of coffee he brewed before he started cooking. Aziraphale started to ask but when he looked at him, he noticed Crowley's eyes were half-lidded and his cheeks were flushed. Aziraphale would never admit it of course, but he might have hammed up his performance a smidge. Everything truly was scrumptious, but he may not have had to moan so appreciatively after every morsel of fresh fruit. Strawberry juice ran down his fingers, Crowley reached to give him a napkin only to have the breath audibly punched out of him when Aziraphale simply sucked the juice clean off his own fingers, internally wiggling in delight at the arousal coming off Crowley in waves.

He doesn’t want to embarrass the poor boy, but he is an angel he can feel emotions, especially when there is massive amounts of it sitting across the same table from him. So yes, Aziraphale knows exactly what he's doing and how it affects Crowley he's just not sure why.

There are too many variables, the type of food, the amount of food, the way he eats, it calls for more experimenting Aziraphale decides. He doesn’t get a chance to experiment for another week, but he keeps observing Crowley closely. Aziraphale is on the cusp of saying damn it all and kissing Crowley and being done with it, but then he thinks of that flustered look at breakfast and he holds out, he wants to see it again, in as many different locales as possible. He almost invites Crowley to dine with him at the Ritz but thinks that he wants somewhere more private for this.

Crowley is at his apartment in Mayfair, presumably threatening his plants, and whatever else Crowley does when he’s not with Aziraphale. Aziraphale takes off his coat, gently hanging it on the coat hanger, unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them to his elbows. Aziraphale flips the shop sign from Closed to Most Definitely Closed, covers all the windows and makes sure to give the building an air of “you definitely don’t want to go in here or even look in the windows” to be safe and gets to work, he miracles all furniture (including the books) upstairs and cleans the human way (with maybe a little bit of miraculous help).

He snaps a picnic blanket into existence, it takes up majority of the floor. He makes a full picnic spread, and finally calls Crowley’s phone. Crowley answers on the fourth ring, voice hoarse from shouting at his poor plants. Aziraphale clucks his tongue fondly. He invites Crowley over, if he’s done terrorizing his poor plants who just want to please him. Crowley tsks and responds that if they grew properly, they wouldn’t have anything to worry about and of course he’s coming over, why wouldn’t he?

Aziraphale smiles and hangs up, snaps his fingers and a few seconds later soft sounds of Schubert waft gently through the space. He busies himself making a cup of tea and settles down with a book. He doesn’t have to wait long; steam is still gently rising into the air from his teacup when there’s a knock on the door.

Aziraphale waves a hand and the door opens, miraculously.

Crowley saunters in, one eyebrow raised, then both as he takes in the change in scenery, the blankets and the basket and the Schubert.

“I just realized, we dined at the Ritz, but I remember promising a picnic?”

Crowley’s heart stutters in his chest, he masks it with a smirk, “Yeah angel, I believe you did. Not worried about going too fast now?”

Aziraphale sighed softly, “No my dear boy, I think we’ve been treading water for quite long enough, don’t you?”

Crowley swallows, nods.

Aziraphale reaches out to him, hopes Crowley will take his hand, and smiles, pleased when he does.

Aziraphale leads him over to the blanket, chattering about the food options happily.

They sit, Aziraphale takes off his shoes, socked toes curling happily against Crowley’s leg.

Crowley takes off his sunglasses and puts them in his coat pocket, leans back on his elbows, basking in the attention of his angel. Aziraphale tried to hand one of the sandwiches to Crowley but as he suspected would happen, Crowley declined.

Crowley shrugged it off, “just a coffee for me, angel.”

Aziraphale shrugs and hands him a devil mug with coffee in it, ignoring Crowley’s delighted grin.

“hardly a picnic when only one of us eats.” Says Aziraphale, reproachfully.

Crowley rolls his eyes, “I’m particcccipating angel. Look at me with my coffee.” Crowley waves his mug around, narrowly, or perhaps, miraculously not spilling any of the hot liquid.

Aziraphale munches happily on his sandwich, while Crowley simply stares at him, coffee forgotten already.

Aziraphale looks at him with a questioning sort of tone.

Crowley shrugs “I think this is most relaxed I’ve even seen you is all, shirt sleeves rolled up, bow tie undone, you’ve really let your hair down.”

Aziraphale smiles softly, “I’m glad you can let your hair down with me as well.” He gestures to Crowley’s pocket where the sunglasses lie abandoned.

Crowley does not blush, but it is a very near thing.

Aziraphale finishes one sandwich and then starts on another and then another, and so on. The sun is setting now, gentle hues of orange glowing across the space. He makes the mistake of glancing over at Crowley mid-bite.

Crowley is almost ethereal looking in Aziraphale’s eyes. Orange is lighting up his hair, his eyes, he looks like he’s glowing with it, as beautiful as he’s ever been, as he will ever be, as he always has been.

Aziraphale gulps down the last of his sandwich (the last of 6 daintily cut cucumber sandwiches.)

Conversation is sporadic at best. They have moments where they get into hysterics talking about the things they got up to over the centuries, very carefully not discussing anything too heavy, and then comfortable but heavy silence. Heavy with want and desire. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife though Aziraphale notes it gets heavier and heavier the more he eats.

Aziraphale is finishing his second pie before Crowley snaps.

Crowley reaches out and places his hand on Aziraphale’s, stilling the fork on the way to his mouth.

“Angel, enough.”

Aziraphale slowly sets the fork down on the small plate with a light clink noise and moves it to the side, out of the way.

“Cro- “He’s interrupted, Crowley has launched himself up and over into Aziraphale’s lap. He’s towering over Aziraphale now and he looks as if he’ll shake apart.

Crowley sinks his hands into Aziraphale’s curls, slowly and carefully tilts Aziraphale’s head back, waits for Aziraphale to make the final move, as he always does.

Aziraphale doesn’t keep him waiting long. “Well, are you going to kiss me this century? Wily old serpent.”

Crowley smiles softly, eyes crinkling with it and finally, finally concludes 6000 years pining with their first kiss. It’s more a of a brush of lips than anything but their second is deeper, and their third and their fourth, and so on.

Crowley grinds down in Aziraphale’s lap and it goes from “finally” to “not enough.” They’re both moaning, little whimpering gasps in between kisses. Both feeling like they’ll fall apart at the seams if they don’t stop, and even more so if they do.


End file.
